Denial
by DealingDearie
Summary: Loki reflects on his past and, in the aftermath of his grief-stricken episode, comes to a new revelation.


Loki could recall, amidst faint, fading slivers of cascading rays of golden sunshine and blonde, tangled hair and icy, chilling river water, days when his smiles were light, his laughter less weighty, his eyes more bright.

He could distinctly remember a time when he, and the world around him, was happy, blessedly, maybe even ignorantly, so, left to wander and roam and enjoy without a single care or burden in the whole universe.

He could remember a lot of things, really, all caught and swirling in his mind, pictures and moments imprinted upon him from an early age, colorful mismatched pieces to an unsolvable puzzle.

But what he couldn't grasp, what he couldn't close his eyes and focus and pull from his deepest memories, was Odin's laughter, or Frigga's scolding, or Thor's attentive knowledge.

He couldn't sit down and think long and hard about the sound of the All-Father's deep, rumbling chuckles, or the surprised glimmer of his light-hearted smile, or the gleam of pride in his eye. Loki couldn't catch the image, and that only served to sadden him, how his own father had never once shown a mere minute of the affection he'd so readily bestowed upon Thor.

He'd earned that from Frigga, though, her soft eyes and quiet joy like a near tangible presence beside him, sitting in his cell with the various remains of furniture strewn and scattered about the white-washed floor, the sole of his foot throbbing and warm from the crimson droplets running down his skin. She'd so often wrapped him in her arms and spun him as a child, and patted his hair and kissed his forehead, and murmured soothing stories in his ear to help him fall asleep. Never once had he witnessed her anger, or seen her eyes flash with rage, or heard the stressed, surprised emotion in her voice. Now, all of that was gone, lost to the quiet, stilled aftermath of a knife being unsheathed, blood spattered in patterns on the hard, unforgiving, unfeeling floor.

And he could only hope that she hadn't suffered, and he tried not to think about, tried not to imagine her last moments. But he was his mother's son, and he imagined that she had defiant, unyielding, and brave. He imagined that she had held her own, and put her chin high, and stared straight ahead, too fearful of closing her eyes and missing the last bit of light she could see, too hesitant to prematurely fall into the darkness.

He would have to ask Thor about the rest, and the thought made him bitter.

_Thor_.

The _fool_, the brother who couldn't let it go, the one person who saw past every wall Loki had hurriedly built around himself. Thor had never given him a true moment, in all of their countless years spent at each other's side, never give him a long, hard look and realized the truth behind such stoic eyes. He was always blind, though, and so it was to be expected that he wouldn't have noticed Odin's outlandish favoritism, or Frigga's own habitual, motherly doting, or Loki's soft shouts when his nightmares caught up to him under the full moon, bathing moonlight glowing, ever watchful, down on him through the open window, the silence of the night made beautiful by the twinkling stars overhead.

Thor had failed to see, all those years ago, and couldn't see it now, and probably never would.

Loki was alright with that, in all honesty. He would rot in his destroyed cell, and his aching foot would mend itself, and his grief would subside, and his voice would give out from all the screaming. He'd use his magic to tidy everything up, if Thor ever did happen to visit, and the prince would remain completely naïve to the truth. But Thor never visited, and Loki didn't think he'd ever see his brother's face again, and that was alright, too.

If Thor was willing to let that hope he'd for so long fought for dissipate and wither and fade away into nothing inside that small, blinding cell within the dungeons of Asgard, then Loki was willing to let him do it.

And if Loki was willing to allow Thor to let go of the past, then the next time the opportunity arose, Loki, growing emptier by the hour, lost within the blurred, mistaken memories of days spent running through forests and lashing out with wooden swords and laughing down the corridors and accidentally breaking Frigga's favorite vase and playing games long into the dead of night-well, he wouldn't be as forgiving as Thor had once been, and for all of his past warnings against violence, the god found himself craving the familiar press of a dagger's hilt against the cold flesh of his palm, needing to feel that comforting drum of his pulse thrumming against the smart side of a marbled handle, just like the most basic, natural extension of himself.

**Please R&R! Feedback of any kind is always appreciated!**

** I know it's short, but I'm planning a new multi-chapter fic, post-TDW. So, hopefully, that can make up for the length of this one. ;D**

**All rights go to their respectful owners.**


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